


will forever be called conqueror of conquerors

by OAbsalom



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Avian Effigies, Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Pining, Saturnalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21938212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OAbsalom/pseuds/OAbsalom
Summary: Crawly runs into Aziraphale in 200BC Rome on assignment and spend for their first wintertime festival together. They get their work done but also drift into the human joy of togetherness.(Teen rating for a kinda dirty joke by the King of Saturnalia, as would have been appropriate for his role. Otherwise fully wholesome)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: O Lord Heal This Gift Exchange





	will forever be called conqueror of conquerors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eturni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eturni/gifts).



> "The man who masters his own soul will forever be called conqueror of conquerors." - Plautus.

A commotion approached in the narrow alley, heralding a crowd of men and women in brightly dressed clothing. Shouting and writhing in their hands, a man was carried aloft by the crowd. Crawly pressed himself against the cool exterior of the nearest building as they passed. He hadn’t progressed another ten paces before several of the rabble-rousers exclaimed, followed by shattering pottery and a peal of uproarious laughter. His face momentarily leapt upward in a wide smile in spite of himself. He loved the way the humans got this time of year – no gods, no masters. Well, one god in particular, but exactly the right god for that kind of attitude. Crawly’s broad smile simmered to a smirk, and he moved on his way.

Per usual, Hell had absolutely no clue what the humans were up to. He’d been tasked to tempt someone ( _Really_? Tempt someone. In this climate! The three people behind that cart over there hadn’t needed any _tempting_. Oh well, who was he to complain of getting easy homework?) into sowing discord among the populace. They’d tabbed an up-and-coming playwright for the honor, and Crawly was hoping to get creative. Plays had been a marvelous invention of deception by the humans, but they tended to lean on the gloomy side. A few laughs were sure to help the civil unrest soak into the public consciousness a little deeper.

He bundled himself up more tightly to fight the cold and crested the hill to the Temple of Saturn. Long tables stretched out, decorated lovely with brimming bowls of food and adorned even lovelier with hoards of humans. Laughs, shouts, chords plucked from sheep gut strings floated on the air, creating a warm and welcoming racket. He strolled along the stretches of feast, seeking his man. What he found instead was a head full of platinum curls he was unlikely to mistake. Not after 4000 years of watching them intently, dreaming of burying his fingers in them while pressing his lips to the man they crowned. Nudging over the reveler to his left, Crawly slid onto the bench beside him.

“Does She mind you’re down here celebrating false gods?” he teased. He was always teasing. It kept a safe distance while still allowing him to delve deep into the true nature of the soul of his always-companion.

Aziraphale looked shocked to see him, but pleasantly so. “Crawly! What are you doing here?”

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale,” he said, as though that should answer the question. The insinuation was lost on the angel.

“What? Of course you are!” The question remained in his voice.

Crawly let the moment hang in the air, widening his eyes to himself briefly. A clay cup appeared miraculously in his hand, and he reached for a jug on the table. He was just about to lean into his unexpected visit when the angel made a satisfied noise, his attention turned toward the lectern that doubtless hosted a priest and a ceremonial sacrifice not so long ago. Standing there, surveying the crowd with a look of deep disdain, was a man that looked far too certain of his station in life.

“There you are! I have been looking all over for you,” Aziraphale murmured to himself and threw a leg over the bench to leave. Crawly looked over at him, a mix of urgency and concern on his face. “Whatever is the matter, dear boy?”

  
Crawly tried to backpedal, missing his mark in the blind attempt. Stutters skittered from his lips, then, “Wuh - Well, just haven’t seen you in a while. Thought we’d sit and chat a few moments." His bottom lip rose up with the words in a manner he’d hoped came off like a suggestion rather than a pout.

“Ah, yes yes. Certainly, we shall. But first I must strike up a conversation with this soldier in regards to his politics.”

Crawly looked back skeptically at the man and the disapproving manner in which he observed the festivities. “ ‘sn’t he the one that wants to blame ladies’ outfits for infirm government spending? Wants to take their money away too, eh? Don't want the _women_ to have any power, where would the world be,” he droned in sarcasm.

Aziraphale tutted. “You know I don’t pick these people, Crawly,” he admonished.

“Still seems a dreadful thing to support,” he murmured into his cup.

A scoff to his right, and Aziraphale was off, charming the man with that smile, pulling him off to the side with a hand on his shoulder. Crawly thought of that hand on his own shoulder. It would be warm, make his body buzz with delight. Just to be near him, that’s all that Crawly wanted. He watched them disappearing into the crowd. Ironic, how the angel had been the one that slithered into Crawly’s heart.

“You there!” declared a jovial voice. Many at the table turned to follow it to its source. Crawly was not one of them, but he did raise his eyebrows in anticipation. “Yes you, and so many siblings you are! Quite apparent your mother absorbed whatever blows were cast her direction and never deigned to take them up the ass!”

A clamor of cheers and banter erupted from the table, and Crawly laughed to himself. At least they hadn’t been charged to chase the chickens or turn out their glasses onto the ground. Their attacker went forth to abuse another table, and his golden eyes roved the crowd, disappointed not to find Aziraphale reemerging victorious from whatever likely-terrible thing Heaven was having him pump into the politician’s mind.

He watched for him over the next couple of days, hoping to see him in some of the public revelry, but most of the festivities had drifted back into homes with families and dear friends. Even most of the slaves were embraced by their masters, welcomed into the main house to join the tables of festivity. Loneliness tried to creep in on him with alarming frequency, but he busied himself with the playwright, reclining casually nearby to seize his attention. Locked in conversation on the merits (or lack thereof) of strict rulers and spreading the idea to his countrymen. Quite tricky business, that. Perhaps he could seed the public consciousness by railing against their celestial kings rather than earthy ones...

The stars had begun to shine in the evening sky, the banquet a couple of days past. It was then he finally found Aziraphale, sitting and watching them as though they had changed vastly over the millennia. When he settled down beside him, there was no surprise.

“Is it strange to feel so awfully lonely?” the angel asked, his tone miles away.

“Doesn’t seem strange at all,” came the reply.

“I really shouldn’t be lonely. Her love is with me always.” The words didn’t convince Crawly, and they didn’t convince Aziraphale either.

“Makes sense. God’s love isn’t the same kind of love that these humans are spreading around. None of the joy in it, I say.”

They sat with silence between them and revelry calling in the background, eyes on the sky stretching out above. Crawly couldn’t tell if the angel was pensive or awkward, comfortable or otherwise. He fingered the small bundle he’d been carrying around since their meeting at the banquet.

“Here,” he murmured and passed a handful of linen to Aziraphale.

“What’s this?” He asked, holding onto one end of the fabric, allowing it to unwind in his other hand. A small clay figurine toppled into his palm. Turning it over in his hand, he found the rough-fashioned likeness of a duck.

"Just something the humans do during this festival, share tiny little tokens with each other. Think it makes them feel less lonely." Crawly hoped it came off as casual. Still, his heart soared to see the light in Aziraphale's eyes, inspecting the avian effigy as though it were the most priceless thing he'd ever touched.

"I can see that," the angel agreed, "It certainly seems to have that effect."


End file.
